Home Team
by avalise
Summary: A super short story about super best roomies and a super boring sport. Style. Slash.


**Disclaimer**: I do not own South Park. Created by Trey Parker and Matt Stone, property of Comedy Central.

**Notes**: In honor of baseball season, I bring you this short little fic. Okay, so baseball season started months ago. I'm a little late in posting. Anyway, in case you haven't guessed by now, this is about baseball (sort of.) And I know the boys complain about baseball in the show, but I see older Stan as a baseball guy. I really have no concrete argument to back that up, so let's just go with it. Please read on and please let me know your thoughts. It's short. This author note may be longer than the story.

**Home Team**

Kyle is seated beside Stan in agonizing boredom, munching on pretzels like a strident nutcracker. He never understood the glamour of baseball. Seven innings in and nothing has happened. It's almost as brutal as meatheads running into each other on a football field for three hours. Almost.

At least basketball, or even soccer, holds Kyle's attention. They involve constant hustle - real physical dedication. Something is _happening_. Right now, the dude pitching is over 40 with a bum knee and takes his sweet time in between pitches.

Kyle isn't sure when Stan decided to shift his interests to baseball. They used to share a common hatred for the most boring sport in history. Case in point, Stan was always a football guy. And then one day he comes home from work and turns on a baseball game like it's totally normal. This has, unfortunately, become routine.

Kyle never has the TV during baseball season. He has to DVR all of his shows because this fucking sport has like 200 games and Stan claims he needs to watch every goddamn one of them. At least with football, Kyle only had to tolerate Sunday afternoons, maybe the occasional Monday night without television. When it comes to baseball, he's screwed. Stan will even sit in front of the TV all day if there's a double header. He _actually_ does that shit.

Stan is also one of those people who can't miss over five seconds of a game. He lives through commercial breaks. Need to pee? He sprints to the bathroom. Need a beer? He bolts to the kitchen. If _you_ need anything? Forget it, he's not moving.

Even when he does take that short bathroom break, he doesn't bother washing his hands. No time. Then he sticks his urine-coated fingers into Kyle's pretzels like this isn't the grossest thing ever.

Little pennants began popping up around the apartment last fall. Kyle came home one day to find his Achievement in Pig Latin plaque tucked away on a bookshelf and a Colorado Rockies pennant in its place.

"Support," Stan explained, defending his choice in décor. "We're in the NLDS this year, Kyle. We're actually doing well for once and you want me to take it down?"

And of course, Stan is one of those people that feels the need to mention the team at all times in the first person. Being a fan somehow denotes a 'we' whenever he's recapping a game, like he actually does something more than just turn on the right channel.

He suddenly jumps to his feet and manages to drown out Kyle's chewing, "Go! Go! Get outta there!" The ball flies across the screen, soaring over the diamond towards the back fences. The left outfielder darts for the edge of the grass before the ball disappears outside of the park for a home run. The fans roar and Stan throws his hands up in the air, yelling like a barbarian.

"Did you see that, dude?! Three runs in! We totally got this." He points to the television as if both parties are equally interested and then promptly removes the pretzels from Kyle's lap when he sits back down.

"Jesus Christ," he suddenly says as a replay reels at thirty different angles in the background. "Dude, are you serious?"

"What?" Kyle asks, biting down a smile onto his bottom lip as guilt fills his frame.

"This bowl was full when the game started." Stan shakes the large bowl containing nothing but tiny crumbs and morsels of salt.

Kyle shrugs, kicking his feet under himself, "Which was like, 6 hours ago. Refill, dude."

Stan drops the bowl back onto Kyle's lap, "You do it. You're the one who killed the bowl. I'm watching the game."

"And it's a commercial right now."

Stan just stares at him, eyes pleading.

Kyle huffs and gets up from the couch, empty bowl in tow. Stan hears him shuffle into the kitchen as his bulky socks suction to the tiled floor because he's a total nerd who still buys socks with little rubbers on the bottoms.

The game continues and it's the ninth inning. Stan is always nervous as hell during the ninth. He's tried to explain the intensity of this potential last inning to Kyle even though Kyle swears up and down that the word intensity should never be associated with baseball. But, during the ninth, a team could be up by 10 and their opponent always has a chance to come back. That's the beauty of baseball. Anything can happen, right down to the last pitch.

"Aww, gross," whines a voice from the kitchen, "you bought the garlic pretzels again? I thought you were getting buffalo?"

Stan smirks and mentally pleads the fifth. He may or may not have done that on purpose.

"Your breath is going to reek," Kyle complains as he returns. He plops his ass back down onto the couch with a fresh bowl of garlicky goodness on his lap.

Stan grabs the bowl and shovels a handful of pretzels into his mouth. Then he attempts some semblance of speech as crumbs tumble over his lips, "You can deal with garlic breath for an hour, Kyle. I have to deal with your permanent coffee breath every day."

The tiniest blush appears on Kyle's cheeks as he dramatically wipes his face of projectile flung his way from Stan's chomping. "I don't even drink coffee."

"I know, that's why it's weird." He shoots Kyle a playful smile in return before leaning over, his elbows on his knees in that laid-back way that he has about him.

Kyle eases himself back into the corner of the couch between two pillows. His eyes watch Stan's every movement, completely uninterested in the male camaraderie on the television. Awful taste in sports or not, he'll always sit through a game to spend time with Stan.

Kyle casually raises a hand to Stan's back and traces his fingers down the spine of the t-shirt in different patterns. Clouds. Cheesy Poofs. Buffalo pretzels—not garlic. "You're the one that sleeps with your mouth open," he continues, "I roll over in the middle of the night and get gassed. You realize how bad your breath has to be to actually wake me up, right?"

Stan's eyes don't leave the TV, still intent on the game. The first half of the ninth is short and sweet. He relaxes into Kyle's touch as much as he can without falling back into the couch. He loves it when Kyle does this. It's not intense enough to be an actual massage, but just enough that he could pass out right here and sleep the night through in an upright position.

Two outs, no one on base. It's looking good for the Rockies. Kyle walks his fingers up to the back of Stan's neck and pushes them into that dark, thick hair. His hands are slow and sensual, amused at the mental battle that fills Stan's face on whether to turn around and give in or finish watching the game.

"And that's the game, folks! 3-0, Colorado Rockies."

As soon as the words leave the announcers lips, Stan falls back onto the couch, landing in the nook of Kyle's arm. He looks up at his other half with a tired smile, "Thanks for hanging out and watching the game with me, dude. I know you're not thrilled about baseball."

Kyle shrugs and gives Stan's shoulder a small squeeze, "Nah, I don't care. I love baseball."

"Okay, that's a lie."

"It totally is. And your breath stinks already - that one's not a lie."


End file.
